Five minutes of navigating Brighton's streets en femme made me reconsider: passing was now a matter of necessity, rather than choice. Visibility was met with cries of "Geezer!" or "Tranny!", sarcastic wolf whistles or things thrown from cars. I soon understood why most trans women don't aim to be visible - at least not when they're doing their laundry. These heckles always came from men, usually in groups, and I soon drafted my First Law of Transphobic Comment: the unimaginativeness of the comment is directly proportional to the unattractiveness of the commenter.

In one of my first lessons in what it means to live as female, I had to consider what types of clothing would draw unwanted attention. This meant trying to avoid the classic male-to-female trap of wearing clothes that looked wrong for my age - one I'd fallen into before transitioning, wearing floral dresses to clubs only to be told by strangers that "You look like my mum". I was reminded of my fumbling attempts to learn German, and the difference between reciting phrases in a Surrey classroom and attempting to converse in Berlin ("Guten tag! Ich möchte ..." "Oh, you're English!"). I realised I'd have to try harder to learn the language of fashion, as not everyone would greet my failures as amicably as the staff in bohemian Berlin cafés.

I decided to ignore any abusive comments: they were more irritating than threatening, and fairly infrequent. But they still made me angry, and the realisation that any response could draw further abuse or even violence made me depressed, and paranoid about every aspect of my appearance. This became apparent in my body language: consequently, the catcalls came more often. After trying some makeup in town, six lads, pointing and jeering, screamed: "Look at that man!" I changed direction and hoped they wouldn't follow. I vowed to switch to trousers and T-shirts, but the abuse kept coming.

Soon, doing anything seemed a drag: it felt impossible even to go to the supermarket, five minutes away, without hassle. Dressed as inconspicuously as possible, I was in the Co-op when a hideous man in a pink shirt leant over and asked: "Excuse me ... are you a geezer?" 'I don't need this,' I thought. 'I'm just buying basil.' I looked him in the eye and said: "Can you leave me alone, please?" To my astonishment, he apologised profusely, until a sales assistant asked him not to harass the customers. Then he left, without fuss.

I realised that confidence is the key to passing, or, at least, to silencing the hecklers. Considering myself above them, I held my head high, aware that any abuse could be easily met. There was a certain pleasure in answering "Geezer!" with "Wanker!", and an enjoyable smugness in knowing that this was the worst weapon the transphobes had to throw.

In broad daylight in a comparatively tolerant city, that is. Walking alone at night was a different story. I soon figured that trans women face the same misogynistic attention as other women, complicated by the removal of some men's limits on violence towards women the second we're 'read' as 'trannies'. Sometimes groups of drunken men would read me; I knew better than to answer back, pretending I'd not heard and quickly walking away. Sometimes they wouldn't read me, and I'd receive misogynistic abuse instead of transphobic insults.

As I became more self-assured - in myself and in my appearance - the comments all but stopped, and my attitude shifted again. Away from the bustle of the city streets, I realised, as Julia Serano says, that the concept of passing casts all trans people as deceivers - something many of us internalise. Being a consequence of other people gendering us, passing should not be an active verb, as we're passive in having our identities judged, derided and denied by non-trans people. This, too, is often internalised, and passing has become one of the most important issues for transgender and transsexual people, with the fear of not passing by association driving a wedge between those who pass easily and those who don't. Historically, this has been one of the biggest barriers to forming any sort of trans community.

On a practical level, I'd learned how draining it could be not to pass, and felt thankful that genetic good fortune meant that passing was at least possible in certain situations. Living in 'stealth', though, felt neither plausible nor desirable for me - unless I cut myself off from friends and family, who knew my history, as transsexual women were often told to do in the past, more to spare their acquaintances the 'embarrassment' of being associated with transsexuals than to make their own lives happier or easier.

I decided to draw a line: I'd try to pass on the street, without striving too hard to hide my inter-gender status in situations where people knew and accepted it - at least in the earliest stages of transition. More relaxed, I could then consider the cost and implications - not to mention the desirability - of the various options available to 'feminise' my face, body and voice. Perhaps, one day, I'll be lucky enough to have the 'problem' faced by friends who transitioned years ago: how (and how much) to be open about a transsexual history they feel to be central to their identities when, physically, they're indistinguishable from people born female (or male, in the case of my female-to-male friends).

For now, though, I want a break from thinking about 'passing'. As for everyone else, 'being' is work enough for me.

• Juliet Jacques's column appears fortnightly. You are invited to post comments and questions for Juliet below, and are very welcome to share your own experiences.